excising the heart
by slyphic
Summary: She pushes your arm. You think you're in love with her. One-shot. Pre-Season 1. Rizzles.
"Your charms have to this moment prevented my heart from varying a single second."

 **\- John Rodgers**

 _._

* * *

A/N: A short rewrite of how these two met among other things. This turned out a little more angsty than I planned, but it comes full circle... I hope.  
Rizzles always, always, always.

* * *

 _._

You have to resist the urge to step back as the new ME removes victim's lungs. But it's your first autopsy since you made homicide, so you figure you'll have some time to get used to it. Maybe one day you'll be like Korsak and complain about missing lunch during the excision.

The smell turns your stomach a little, so you try to focus on something, _anything_ else. Like the lab techs buzzing like bees on the other side of the glass. Or how loudly Korsak's stomach is growling. Or the softness of the ME's voice. The gentle curve of her neck. Those few shiny strands that have escaped her bun. And...

"All right, I gotta eat something. You good here, Rizzoli?"

You nod, and it's part affirmation, part attempt to shake those thoughts from your head.

"See ya, Dr. Isles," he calls over his shoulder.

You clasp your hands together in front of your belt buckle and shift your weight back and forth between your heels and the balls of your feet. You try to break the ice. "So I guess it's just you and me."

If she even hears you over her what looks to be intense concentration, she gives no indication. You've overheard some detectives call her the Queen of the Dead. Maybe this is what they meant.

So you do what you came down here to do: observe.

.

As she finishes, you take a step towards her. You offer your hand, but she merely stares at it blankly as if confused by the gesture.

"Uh… I'm Detective Rizzoli."

"Oh," she says quietly, reaching up to tuck a golden strand behind her ear. She accepts your outstretched hand, smiling as if caught a little off-guard. "Yes, I've heard of you."

And _wow_. Up close she really is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes your stomach jump a little.

"Well, it was nice to meet you."

"Likewise." It's soft and bell-like, and it has you sneaking down to the morgue every chance you get.

* * *

…

* * *

As it turns out, you work quite closely with her, and she most certainly is not always as disheveled as she appears in autopsy. With rarely a hair out of place, she shows up to crime scenes dressed as though there might be a photoshoot later.

And honestly, if it were anyone else, you might have resented such a flashy display of wealth. But for whatever reason, all Dr. Isles seems to do is bring a stupid smile to your face.

Like now, for example, as you extend your hand to help her up. Her red dress looks like it costs more than your condo and everything in it, but god, she wears it well.

"You look nice," tumbles out, and your face flushes, but you don't really regret it.

You watch as the corners of her mouth tug upwards, "Thank you, Detective."

"Jane… You can call me Jane if you want."

And you sort of have to pretend like all the air doesn't leave your body as she puts her mouth on your name. Twice. "Call me Maura," she says warmly.

You can't feel your toes.

* * *

...

* * *

You invite her to drinks the night you wrap up your fourth case working together.

Her eyes widen and she tries to decline about five separate times, but she can't seem to find the right words.

"I… Well… I don't… can't… I…"

"Just you and me?" you try, and her eyes fall shut as she takes a deep breath.

"Yes… oh, that sounds wonderful."

.

She scrunches her nose at your beer, lifts her wine glass to your face, and proceeds to list reasons why you should ditch the Sam Adams and join her in drinking dusty grape juice.

And while her words lose a lot of their meaning somewhere in the middle, you think she looks a little adorable when she goes all science-mode.

She stops mid-sentence, "I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

You shrug, "I dunno. I kinda like it, googlemouth."

A look of offense crosses her face, but it quickly gives way to that smile you hope is only for you. She pushes your arm. You think you're in love with her.

* * *

…

* * *

After three months, she somehow becomes your jogging partner. You're not entirely sure how this happened, but honestly, you can't think of a better way to start the morning than Maura and that smile and her daily facts about endolphins or something.

Some days you can see a flicker of challenge in those hazel-green eyes, and really, you have no choice but race her until the end.

Those are the days you both end up back at your apartment: you being the one gasping for air and nearly collapsing onto the couch, while she downs glasses of ice water, giggling at you. And of course, she looks like some kind of golden goddess, slick with sweat and somehow _glowing._

Those are the days she uses your shower, and you've never seen anything quite like Maura Isles in your clothes, wet hair pulled out of her face.

She is magnificent.

* * *

…

* * *

On your days off, you try to show her everything she missed as a kid while at that fancy boarding school. And you do for a couple weeks, but the moment you realize she's content with just watching movies together on your couch, you know you've found your new favorite thing in the world.

She asks a lot of questions. Questions you don't have the answers to like the motivations of Disney characters.

"I don't understand, Jane."

"Shh, Maur. Just enjoy it."

You feel her hum in contentment as she settles against your side. Her hair smells like your shampoo and something else uniquely Maura. It's comfortable. You link your fingers through hers and count the seconds until she pulls away.

You lose count around eighty-seven.

* * *

…

* * *

The first night she spends in your bed is the most terrifying night of your life.

You're facing each other with your fingers intertwined between you. She tells you about her adoptive parents, and how they weren't around enough to help her grow up. She tells you they are why she is so fiercely independent now. Why she is distant. Indifferent. Stand-offish, at times.

"No," you tell her. You squeeze her fingers once more then reach up to touch her face. "You're strong."

She shuts her eyes tightly, "Jane… I am not well-liked at work."

"Mm, nonsense. I like you."

She laughs a little, "Oh, do you, Detective?"

Your spine tingles. She's _flirting_ with you, and she's leaning in, and _oh god_ you could almost kiss her, and–

You take your hand from her face and roll onto your back. Your fingers shake with adrenaline and _now_ would be a great time to run eight miles.

She reaches for your hand, but you fold it tightly with the other. "Jane?"

You try your best to ignore the hurt in her voice. "Night, Maur."

* * *

…

* * *

A month later she goes to a medical conference and comes home with a date.

Even you have to admit that's he's _perfect._ A doctor. A _surgeon_. She shows you a picture, and your heart drowns in your stomach acid.

You ask her about him, but she's frustratingly vague. Even after three dates, she doesn't seem to have any details to tell you, just as she seems to have less and less time to spend with you as their relationship sails forward.

Some days all you can do is sit alone in your kitchen and wonder what the hell happened.

Other days you have half a mind to fake your own death just so you might have a chance of seeing her again.

* * *

...

* * *

She introduces you to him by accident, really.

You stop by her office to see if you still have plans to see a movie tonight. You're halfway through your question when you realize she's not alone. He's there, and they're both smiling.

He fastens a necklace around her neck, and her fingers come to rest at the pendant.

"I love it, thank you." She gives him your smile.

You feel like running away, and you almost do, but she sees you first.

"Oh! Jane!" she takes his hand, and you're fracturing. "This is Hans."

You manage only a tight smile before you make up some excuse about needing to go back upstairs. You hurry away, not quite oblivious to the way her face falls as she watches you go

* * *

...

* * *

Within a month, he's coming to Sunday dinners. Your mother absolutely _adores_ him, and he gets along with Frankie like another brother. But you freeze off all his attempts to befriend you.

You have enough friends. Thanks.

You see the way he looks at her, and it becomes increasingly more difficult to tell yourself he's just some jerk she'll toss out sooner or later. And as you watch his hand cover hers atop the table, you feel the bile rising in your throat.

That used to be _you._

Your hands clench into fists in your lap, leaving crescent indentations from your fingernails. You want to disappear. Melt away.

She catches your eyes for the first time since you arrived. Your spine straightens infinitesimally as she mouths your name. You almost can't believe it, but there she is right in front of you with dull eyes and nothing resembling that smile you love so much.

She is unhappy.

You turn away when he kisses her goodnight.

* * *

…

* * *

The next night she tells you about the trip. Three weeks in Vienna. You want to tell her that's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. She should be here, solving crimes. Not with him taking spontaneous vacations to Austria without a care.

You hate the words as they come out. "That sounds... fun."

She nods once and smiles, but her heart's not in it "Yes, it does."

You suddenly don't feel like spending the night like you planned. "Well, then I guess I'll see you when you get back." You start to leave.

"I told him no."

You freeze, "What?"

"I told him I wouldn't go with him."

"Why?"

She pushes a strand of hair from her face with her wrist, no doubt a habit carried over from her autopsies. "I should be happy with him."

"I don't-"

"I should _want_ to go away with him. I should _want_ to be with him, not waiting patiently for him to leave," she shakes her head and drops her gaze to the floor. The next part comes out bitterly, "I shouldn't hope so desperately for his pager to go off while we're in the middle of dinner."

"Maur, I-"

Her eyes snap to yours, angry. You've never seen her angry before.

"I should be happy, Jane. He's everything I was looking for. He's interested in me... I should be thrilled."

"Then what's the problem?"

She presses the heel of her hand to her forehead and laughs a little before letting it drop to her side. "He's not you."

Tiny fireworks explode between your vertebrae. You have no words. Only the blood that shoots through your veins.

"He's a great guy, Jane. He really is," she says like an afterthought. "But I'm not in love with him... Which is unbelievably pathetic because you made it _very_ clear you're not interested in me."

You flinch, stunned. And here you thought you had a neon sign following you around flashing: 'I'm fucking jealous!' Though, to be fair, Maura's never been too keen on the obvious.

"What are you talking about?"

Her eyes widen incredulously, "You turned away from me when I tried to kiss you, and you ignored me for weeks!"

Oh yeah, that.

"I needed time. I... was confused." You take a step towards her, "You're my best friend, Maur. I didn't want to lose that. I didn't want to mess it up."

She wipes at the corner of her eye, "Why didn't you tell me? I would have understood. I would have waited." _None of this would have happened._

Of course, you don't have an answer, but what you do have might be even better.

"I want to be with you," you tell her, and you feel that tug in you heart as you gently touch the side of her face. She leans into your touch, releasing a sigh. She smiles and _oh_ _god_ , she is so beautiful, and she's stretching up on her toes, and you could kiss her.

And this time, you don't even hesitate.

Her lips are soft against your own. You feel her all around you, inside your bones, hugging your skin.

Your heart beats and beats and beats.

* * *

.

end


End file.
